The moon rode high, fat and pale, like a forgotten dumpling floating in broth. The sect compound was quiet, too quiet for a mountain known for its bustling kitchens even after midnight. Tonight, laughter was banned, fires dimmed, cauldrons sealed. Every cook who wasn't a guard stood down, every guard who wasn't essential hid in the shadows where their eyes would gleam without giving away position.
They had baited the trap.
At the eastern service gate, where wagons usually carried sacks of rice and crates of fermented roots, the elders had set a single cart. To anyone outside, it looked like a supply run left carelessly for night shipment—two barrels of cheap pickled vegetables and one lacquered box tied with rough rope. Inside that box sat a decoy: a bottle carved to resemble the phoenix dew vial, complete with glowing liquid prepared from lotus oil and crushed spirit peppers to fake its aura.
And next to it, hidden under burlap, sat Yan Chen.
He crouched, knees folded against his chest, golden spoon in his sleeve, knife on his thigh, heart in his throat.
The elders hadn't wanted him here. They'd wanted him back in the Vault, guarded, away from danger. But Yan had insisted.
"This started with me," he'd said, surprising even himself with the steel in his voice. "If the Serpent Wok wants me, let them try to take me. I want to see their eyes when they fail."
Master Gao had stared at him a long while before finally nodding once. "Very well," he'd said. "But if you die, I'll tan your ghost for wasting good training."
Now Yan waited in the dark, listening to the night breathe.
The first sign came with the smell.
Not the usual night smells of pine and damp soil, but something sharp—like citrus over fire, like sugar burning too fast. A signal spice. Bai Yun had warned him: They carry their own wind before they arrive.
Then came the sound—no footsteps, just the tiniest metallic chime, like chopsticks struck gently.
The rope on the cart shifted. Yan didn't move.
Another sound—closer now: a breath, deliberate, trained.
A voice whispered from somewhere above him. "Careful. They have watchers."
Another answered: "Let them. We'll be gone before they blink."
Yan counted three voices. Maybe more. His fingers closed around the spoon, thumb tracing its grooves like a monk fingering prayer beads.
The rope loosened. The cart cover slid.
A hand reached in.
Yan moved.
His spoon shot out, striking the wrist. The thief yelped softly—no scream, just a startled exhale. In the same breath, Yan shoved the decoy vial deeper, using his weight to tip the entire box over the thief's knees. The cart clattered, drawing the guards from the shadows.
"Now!" someone barked.
The night exploded.
Figures in black and charcoal spilled from the treeline like ink bleeding across parchment. Fans snapped open, knives glittered like teeth, and ropes flew, hissing as they coiled for limbs and throats. The sect guards answered in silence, blades flashing only when necessary, wooden staves aiming for joints, not death.
Bai Yun descended from the roof like a comet, her twin daggers catching moonlight as she slashed a rope mid-flight. Master Liu was there, sword quiet and efficient, cutting through a would-be captor like a chef filleting a fish. The Enforcer fought like an avalanche—no finesse, just unstoppable force, hurling two men against a wall with one shove.
Yan found himself face to face with the fan-wielding youth from the alley.
"You again," the youth murmured, fan snapping open with a hiss. Painted petals—black as char—winked in the moonlight. "Brave little cook."
Yan didn't speak. He lunged, spoon flashing, aiming not at flesh but at the fan's pivot. The golden utensil struck with a bright, ridiculous ting! and the fan folded awkwardly, the youth's eyes widening.
"Did you just—"
"Break your toy?" Yan offered, grinning despite the fear. "Looks like it."
The youth's grin returned, sharp now. "I like you."
He swung the broken fan like a blade. Yan ducked, rolled, and threw one of Bai Yun's spice sachets at his opponent's feet. It burst in a puff of powdered pepper and lotus ash, blinding the youth long enough for Yan to dash behind a stack of crates.
But not all was going well.
Two sect guards were already down, ropes binding their arms. Qi Hu—bound, gagged—was being dragged by two masked thieves toward the east path. The plan had been to recover him during the strike, but the guild had anticipated a countermeasure—they were splitting their force: some to grab the "vial," others to extract their hostage while the mountain scrambled.
Yan cursed under his breath. He could stay safe and guard the cart—or he could go after Qi Hu.
He didn't hesitate.
He sprinted after the kidnappers, weaving between dueling silhouettes, ducking flying blades, jumping over spilled spice crates that cracked open like bleeding fruit. His lungs burned; the spoon pulsed hot, as if sensing that this choice mattered.
The kidnappers were quick, but they weren't expecting one idiot cook to chase them alone. Yan tackled the rear thief at the knees, sending them both crashing into the dirt. The second thief turned, blade out, slicing downward—only for Yan to thrust his spoon up like a shield.
Metal met enchanted gold with a ringing clash. Sparks spit.
Yan shoved upward with everything he had, then kneed the thief in the stomach and rolled away with Qi Hu in his grasp.
"Run!" he gasped through Qi Hu's gag. "Now!"
Qi Hu muffled something that probably wasn't gratitude but obeyed, limping toward the compound as the fight's tide turned.
Behind them, the copper-haired woman emerged from the trees, her silhouette framed in moonlight, eyes cold, calm, calculating.
"You've meddled more than we predicted, little cook," she said, stepping lightly over fallen pine needles as though strolling through a garden. "You're either very brave… or very stupid."
"Can't I be both?" Yan said, panting, spoon raised.
Her smile curved like a knife. "Perhaps. But even bravery curdles."
She snapped her fingers.
From the shadows, a long, sinuous shape uncoiled—no mere thief this time, but a beast. A serpent, scales gleaming dark green, eyes like molten tea, mouth steaming with some chemical alchemy. It wasn't large enough to topple buildings, but it was large enough to eat a man whole.
Yan's throat went dry. "You brought a snake to a cooking fight?"
"I brought dinner to collect dinner," she said sweetly.
The serpent lunged.
For a heartbeat, time slowed. Yan's senses sharpened—sound narrowed to the hiss of scales, sight to the gleam of fangs, smell to burning spice. He wasn't a fighter. He wasn't a warrior. But he was a cook with a golden spoon that vibrated now with *something new.* Not just heat. Not just warning.
Guidance.
His body moved before his fear could freeze it. He sidestepped, slammed the spoon into the serpent's lower jaw like he was flipping a fish, and channeled the taste-thread instinct the book had whispered of—the weaving of heat, intent, and memory.
The serpent recoiled, a startled hiss leaving its mouth. Steam erupted where the spoon had struck, scales sizzling as if the serpent had been cooked in a flash of heat no fire had produced.
The copper-haired woman's eyes widened. "What—"
Yan didn't let her finish. He stepped forward, driving the spoon again into the serpent's flank, focusing on the memory of boiling stock—pressure, expansion, release.
The serpent convulsed. Its hiss became a scream, not of pain, but confusion—like its body didn't know whether it was flesh or broth anymore. It whipped its tail, knocking Yan flying into a crate.
He groaned, spat blood, staggered to his feet.
The serpent reared back—then froze.
Steam poured from its mouth. Its scales dulled, hardened… then cracked.
With a grotesque, wet pop, the serpent collapsed—not dead, not whole, but paralyzed, its muscles locked in unnatural stillness, as if it had been blanched alive.
The copper-haired woman stared at Yan like he had just rewritten gravity. "You—" she breathed. "You don't just cook with flavor. You cook with *force.*"
Yan raised his spoon like a sword. "Guess you ordered the wrong menu."
For the first time, she stepped back.
The fight behind them was already turning. Sect reinforcements swarmed. The guild's surviving thieves retreated, dragging their wounded, fanning smoke to cover escape.
The copper-haired woman flicked two fingers in a sharp signal. A masked rider appeared from the tree line, and in two heartbeats, they were gone—leaving only the serpent, inert, steaming, and smelling faintly of roasted fish
Qi Hu was safe. The vial was safe. The sect compound lived through the night, battered but unbroken.
But as the elders gathered around the cooling serpent corpse, Elder Chen Jin's face was not relieved.
"This was not their full hand," he said grimly. "This was an opening taste."
Yan stood there, spoon trembling slightly in his grip, his heart still racing, his ribs aching from the crate's hit, and yet a small fire burned in his chest.
He'd fought a beast with a spoon.
And won.
For the first time since reincarnating here, Yan Chen felt it deep in his bones:
The real cultivation hadn't even started yet.